


Looking Up

by cabbagetop



Series: Overnight Proofing [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Don't ask me about ages what even are ages when there's Tim Drake, Gen, Kid Jason Todd, Kid Tim Drake, Mother Hen Jason Todd, New Earth, Rating is due to Jason swearing copiously, and The Titans Tower Fight scene, when he's not inflicting casual violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2021-02-19 11:29:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22610194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cabbagetop/pseuds/cabbagetop
Summary: Jason found a boy, once, when he was young and thought that Crime Alley had all the bad things the world had to offer.This becomes relevant later, when he's become the worst thing out there.
Relationships: Tim Drake & Jason Todd
Series: Overnight Proofing [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1722916
Comments: 43
Kudos: 927
Collections: My Favorite Works, Red Hood vs Red Robin





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Scribbled veeery quickly from a bunny-out-of-nowhere and not beta'd, so. Is what it is? Honestly I'd kind of like to add more to it but that's where the bunny jumped off ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

It’s serendipity, is what it is.

If Jason hadn’t been lighting up a cigarette, still inexpert, still needing a couple’a flicks to get the lighter to take, he would’a just been kickin’ around in the dark.

Wouldn’t’a glanced up, eyes idly following the trailing smoke when the filter caught.

Wouldn’t’a seen the glint of his lighter flame, reflecting off a shiny bit of glass that had no right to be there, hanging over the edge of the broken fire escape.

Let nobody ever tell him again that smoking is all bad.

Jason backs up, taking a drag of his cigarette and feeling a real grown-up eleven when it goes down without gagging him, tilting his head and trying to get a look at what’s on the fire escape. Too big to just be another broken bottle. Maybe somebody threw out their stuff when they moved, like some wall pictures? Then-

There’s another flash and glint, as something moves.

That’s a _person_ up there.

Well.

A really tiny person, or a really big cat.

Crime Alley produces some pretty mean cats, so Jason scans the ground for something to defend himself with, just in case- he doesn’t want to have to use his tire iron and actually _hurt_ a _cat_ , he’s not a _monster_ \- and picks up a piece of wood that had probably been the stake from some sign. Armed as he’s going to get, he calls up, “Hey, you a kid or a rat?”

There’s a pause, then a tiny- _very_ tiny- head pops through the rusty rails, only one story down from the roof. “I’m not a rat!”

And that’s just craptastic. Jason peers up, but the rest of the kid is completely hidden in the shadow of the building. Streetlights in Gotham seemed almost intended to let the alleyways stay in darkness. “Well,” Jason says finally. “You sure squeak like one.”

“I do not!” The kid leans out farther to look down at him and Jason instinctively drops his cigarette and raises his hands, much good as that does, but- holy shit, this little twerp is, what, six stories up, and so little that he can apparently squeeze right through the bars of a fire escape.

A fire escape which, Jason’s brain helpfully reminds him, looks about to collapse in any good puff of a stiff wind. “I might believe you more if you weren’t scuttling around up there where the rats are,” Jason tries.

The kid hunkers down a little, stays quiet. Not a total idiot, then. Also probably not gonna come down just because Jason asks nicely, and it’s not like Jason can climb the rickety old thing to get up where he is.

Fuck, though. Why does he even care? He knows as well as anybody what families and homes are like around here, the kind of shit that could’a driven the kid out here in the middle of the night. At least he picked a good hiding spot. Jason should probably just let him be- it’s not like he has anywhere better to go, anyway.

Of course, then the kid leans out again. “Why do you have a tire iron?”

Well, of all the- “None’a your business,” Jason snaps. “Hey, why were you watching me, you little creep?”

“You’re too young to drive a car,” the kid pipes up. “Were you-“ and Jason can practically hear the air quotes- “chopping a vehicle?”

“What? What the fuck, what is wrong with you?” Jason throws down his wooden stake and puts his hands on his hips. “You’re too young to know about that shit. And don’t ask people questions like that.”

“I can’t _un-know_ something,” the kid says, and he sounds very prim and reasonable. Jason wonders if maybe his parents actually ran away from _him_ , and then immediately feels guilty for the thought. “You avoided giving an answer. Does that mean I was right but you didn’t want me to know?”

“ _What_? Kid.” Jason pinches his nose and squeezes his eyes shut. With his other hand, he points firmly at the ground. “That’s it. Get down here. Now.”

“Why?”

“’Cause you’re not remotely safe to be on your own in the big wide world, that’s fuckin’ why. Christ on a corunda.”

“What’s a corunda.”

“Kid, _I am going to count to ten.”_

It only takes a second for the kid to start scrambling. Jason’s grateful, because he doesn’t actually know what he’d do if he had to start counting…and reached ten. It’s just something he’s heard adults shouting at their toddlers before. Luckily, his target seems to think the consequences are serious. Even more luckily, the little runt doesn’t seem to weigh enough to stress the frame of the fire escape, so he makes it down to the lowest intact level without triggering anything worse than a few little metallic screeches.

That last level is only one story up. The ladder is lying rusted out on the ground, so Jason just plants himself under the opening where it used to hang and holds his arms out. “Come on, jump. I’ll catch you.”

This close, he can finally see what he’s working with. A boy, for sure; a scrawny little thing with dark hair and pale skin, on the skinny side by a mile but no bruises showing. Not that that means much around here. Jason’s no expert at judging ages but he’d guess this one’s bigger than Toumani, who lives upstairs with six sisters and who Jason thinks is four, and smaller than Estas, two floors down, who is nine. He’s definitely half the size of Jason in every direction, even in his baggy black hoodie. And…oh, great, he’s spooking.

Jason waves his hands impatiently. “Come on. Jump.”

“What are you going to do when I do?”

“I’m gonna drag you home by your ear,” Jason says honestly.

“You don’t know where I live,” the boy points out sensibly. He’s crouched on his toes, teetering unconcernedly on the edge of the hole. Jason could probably reach him if he really jumped.

He’d probably bring the whole fire escape crashing down on them both, though.

“You’re going to tell me where you live,” Jason says, taking deep, slow breaths through his nose like Toumani’s mom taught him once. “And-“ he holds up a hand when the kid opens his mouth. “You’re going to tell me that, because otherwise I’m gonna take away that fancy camera you got hangin’ around your neck.”

Yeah, Jason had noticed that pretty little thing. Probably worth half a year or more of Jason’s rent, and this runty little twerp has it stuffed down the front of his hoodie like that’ll keep him safe from the kind’a people out at night in Crime Alley.

Where he’d got it from is one mystery. How he’s so far managed to keep it, and stay alive with it, is a totally different one.

The kid wilts. Then he twists, crossing his arms over his chest- to protect that damn camera, Jason realizes afterwards- and hinges forward, and drops right out of the hole, head-first, ignoring Jason’s frantically grasping hands, and lands himself almost as neatly as a gymnast on his feet on the ground. Stumbles a little, throws out his arms a bit to catch his balance, but he’s fine.

Jason has a goddamned heart attack.

“You little _brat,_ ” he hisses. He stomps up and grabs the hood of the kid’s sweatshirt, twisting it in his grip so the boy can’t slip out and run away. “Right, playtime’s over, time for all good little monsters to be in bed. Let’s go.” Jason scoops up his tire iron from where it was leaning against the wall- _all he’d wanted was a fucking cigarette-_ and frogmarches the kid out of the alley. He gives him a little shake when they step out into the light of the open sidewalk. “Come on, give it up, where we goin', shortstack?”

“My name is Tim,” the kid complains, and he honestly seems more irritated about that than the rough handling. Jason casts his eyes to the heavens. _God, Ganesh, Cthulu, or whatever the dick is actually out there,_ he thinks, _bless this little idiot who clearly cannot walk your earth alone, and what were you fuckin’ thinkin,’ droppin’ him in Crime Alley?_ “And I’d like to go to a number 42 bus stop, please.”

“I’m not takin’ you to go sleep in no fuckin’ bus stop, kid. Fuck's sake." Like the Alley's not prowling with shitheads just waitin' to snatch up little lost ones the minute their backs turn? And Tim thinks Jason's gonna drop him off to snuggle down in a lit bus shelter like a display window. "I’m takin’ you home. Which way?”

Tim wriggles and stares up at him with wide, guileless blue eyes. Jason’s read that word in a few books recently, guileless. It’s used a lot for young women who let themselves get pushed around or told what to do and don’t seem to mind, but they’re somehow heroines anyway just because they’re beautiful.

Jason thinks it’s a better fit to twerps like Tim.

“The number 42 bus is the first connection I take to get home. There’s one leaving from the stop one block south and two blocks east of here in twenty-three minutes." 

Jason wheels south. They walk in a moment of blessed, cooperative silence.

"Do you hit people with your tire iron? Do you knock them out and steal their valuables or shatter kneecaps for the mob?”

Jason stumbles over his own feet in his horror. “Jesus _fuck_.” He whirls on Tim and shakes him. “What _are_ you? What is _wrong_ with you? No, I do not _attack people._ ” He stares at Tim’s calm, curious face, clutching his bony shoulders. This kid is so, so fucking tiny. He barely comes up to Jason’s _chest_. He squeaks like a baby rat. And he’s asking if Jason’s a mob enforcer with the same kind of interest you ask somebody if they’ve ever seen Superman.

_All he’d wanted was a motherfucking cigarette._

“Tim,” Jason says. He takes a quick look around, makes sure the block is empty except for the usual working girls. Takes another rhythmic nose-breath. “Tim. _Why the fuck_ are you comin' with me if you think I kneecap people with a tire iron? Does that actually sound like a smart choice to you?”

Tim tilts his head like a little bird. “Well,” he says, like he’s actually thinking about it. Jesus Christ. “I’m really fast, and you smoke cigarettes, which is significantly debilitating to your cardiovascular performance, particularly when begun at an early age. So. I’m probably faster than you. I think. If I had to run away.”

And…Jason physically can’t restrain himself. He drags the kid in and drops his forehead down on that spiky nest of dark hair. “You. Are not safe. You realize that, right? You obviously got a brain in this skull, like, a one-in-a-million brain, here, and it is _not working for you._ Tim. New plan, kid.” He pushes back and leans down to get at eye level. Tim seems completely fine with all the manhandling, just as placid and calmly interested as he has been all along. It’s freaking Jason out as much as anything else. “You need to tell me, Tim. Are your mom or dad or somebody else at home the reason you ran out tonight?”

Tim suddenly shuts down a little bit. His lips pinch shut, his eyes squint. He shakes his head. Huh. So there’s some secret there. Jason believes him, though; that’s not fear in his eyes.

“Okay. Then I’m gonna come home with you, okay? I need’ta talk to your parents. You get that I have’ta do that, right? To keep you safe?”

Tim squints a little more. Then he sighs real big and drops his head, all slumped and forlorn. Jason figures he’s made his point, so he pats the kid’s back and scruffs his hair and steps back-

And Tim’s off like a shot, streaking down the Alley like a bullet, leaving Jason open-mouthed in his dust.

“Kid- Tim! Tim, stop!” Jason takes off after him, hard as he can, but Tim is _fast_ , and he seems to know these streets as well as Jason does, and Jason loses him in minutes. The kid is just _gone_. Vanished into thin air. Jason gives up and slows, leans against a wall to catch his breath and swear viciously.

He coughs.

_Fucking cigarettes._

He never thinks to look up.


	2. Chapter 2

Tim’s going to die. This is it. He’s actually going to die, and there’s no way out, and he’s going to die, and it’s going to be _Jason,_ it’s _Jason_ sauntering towards him for another go and he’s hurting so much everywhere now that he can’t even roll himself over to protect his belly or his throat, he’s just staring helplessly through swollen eyes and those boots are coming nearer, nearer-

“-and a’course everybody sure loves sayin’ what a smart cookie you are. Bruce must’a been pleased about that.”

Something dredges itself up from the murk of Tim’s mind. “One-in-a-million brain,” he murmurs.

Jason barks out a laugh. “That what he told you? Too bad you couldn’t figure this one out sooner, huh?” He winds up and kicks Tim viciously in the gut. Tim rolls, coughing and gasping. His mouth is wet and he doesn’t know anymore if it’s spit or blood. He lands on his back, staring blankly at the sky, until Jason blocks out the view, crouched over him, idly flicking a knife in his gloved hands.

“You’re not safe,” Tim whispers.

Jason snorts. “No shit, Sherlock.”

“Gonna drag you home by your ear.”

Jason stops flicking the knife. “Uh…what?”

Tim closes his eyes, and smiles. “You called me a rat.”

There’s a long pause. Then a rough glove slaps his cheek. “Robin. Hey, Replacement. Shit, this’s no fun if you’re gonna tap out so early, you little punk.”

Tim just smiles, and shakes his head, even though it makes his neck hurt, and opens his eyes to look up at the dark night. “You called me a rat,” he remembers on a wheeze. Tim never really forgets anything, after all; his brain just pushes things aside to make space for new facts. “You called me a rat, and you said I squeaked. And…and I’ve had a corunda.”

“Replacement, what the fuck.”

“And I only thought you were kneecapping people or hitting them over the head because I didn’t know that tire theft was an industry when I was seven.” That’s a long sentence; it takes a lot from Tim to get it out, so he settles a little when it’s done, staring sightlessly upwards, half lost in his memory. The blood loss is sure helping him get there.

Jason rocks back on his heels. “…Tim.”

“Yup.”

“You’re Tim.”

“That’s my name, don’t wear it out.”

“You’re… _Tim_ Tim.”

“You still smoke. It’s a bad habit, you know.”

"Shut it, you. That goddamn cigarette saved your fuckin' hide, probably."

There’s a long, long silence. Tim lets his eyes fall closed again. He’s still bleeding. He’s still probably going to die. But he has a vague feeling that something’s changed, and maybe not for the worse, for once.

“Shit,” Jason says, and there’s a click and a whirring noise as he takes off his helmet. “You were seven? Man, you were a runty kid.”

“Yeah,” Tim sighs. “I’m still waiting on my middle school growth spurt.”

There’s another pause, and then Jason sighs, too, big and gusty, enough to wash a breeze over Tim’s face. “Well, fuck.”

Tim peers up at him as best he can. Jason’s looking down with tired eyes, sitting now with arms slung around his upturned knees, hair matted down to his head from the helmet. “What’d’ya wanna do now?”

“Talk to your parents,” Jason says immediately, and Tim can’t help laughing. Blood bubbles wetly up his throat and he spits it out to the side.

“They were in Croatia,” he splutters, half laughing and half choking. “Working on a dig. For another two months. And straightaway to Venezuela after that for six weeks. That’s why I ran. They’re both dead now.”

“Aw, crap,” Jason groans, and scruffs his hands through his hair. “Don’t tell me shit like that, kid. Come on.” He rocks up to kneeling so he can riffle freely through the pouches on his belt and the pockets of his cargos, pulling out sanitizing wipes, compression wraps, butterfly bandages, and even a little vacuum-packed space blanket. “Fuckin' bullshit is what this is. Gotta get you all patched up now’n everythin’. Can’t go beatin’ on ya now. Like tryin’a cook a lamb chop after ya went an' pet the lamb.”

Tim sputters out more wet guffaws of laughter, even if he sort of thinks that was supposed to be insulting- but Jason just sounds so disgruntled, he can’t help it. Jason fixes the bandages in place and wraps up both of his hands and one of his shins, which might be fractured after all, and pops one of his shoulders back into place without asking or warning, which Tim actually appreciates. Warning just makes him tense up. Then he crosses Tim’s arms over his chest and bundles him under the reflective blanket, tucking the edges firmly under his sides and feet, and settles back in an easy crouch. A lit cigarette has somehow magically appeared in his fingers. He looks about as tired as Tim feels.

“Hey, Jason,” Tim says. He knows it’s a stupid question even before he starts, but he just can’t help it. He’s never been able to help it. “Is your dad the reason you’re not at home?”

Jason snorts and shakes his head. “How you’re still alive is a fuckin’ miracle, I swear. I can’t believe nobody’s just shoved you off a rooftop yet.”

Tim chortles. “I mean, Damian’s tried.”

“The fuck? Ain’t that kid supposed to be your brother?” And Jason looks so indignant, so righteously outraged on Tim’s behalf, so like Tim’s _Robin_ -

Well.

Tim likes to trust his facts, not feelings, but he has a compelling little feeling that things might just turn out okay.

Jason swipes his comm while he’s musing fuzzily. His eyes have closed again at some point and he can’t be bothered to open them again. “Gonna have’ta call you a pick-up,” Jason mutters, dragging on the cigarette with one hand and tapping the familiar SOS code with the other. “Your Titans are out for the count and I came on the bike.”

“All the way from Gotham?”

“Yeah. I always wanted to road trip.”

“Was it good?”

“Nah. Too much blue sky and sunshine. Weird happy little towns like outta sitcoms.”

Tim wriggles a hand out of the space blanket to pat Jason’s leg consolingly. Dick, Kon, Bart, and the others just don’t _get_ it sometimes, but Jason’s a born and bred Gothamite, just like Tim. _He_ knows.

“Get your hand back in there, you little twerp, you wanna undo all my hard work here?”

“You’re gonna come with me, right?” Tim says, pinching at Jason’s jacket hem. “You gotta talk to my parents. You said.”

The rank smell of Jason’s cigarette smoke chokes Tim’s throat a little, but he doesn’t mind. It just proves Jason’s still here, just like it did when he was a curious little boy taking pictures off the fire escape. “…Yeah, Tim. I’m gonna come with.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jason, holding out Tim: you seem to have misplaced something???  
> Tim, dangling from the armpits: look who I found!  
> Bruce: what.  
> Jason: yes, good start, like what is this insane little rabbit child doing out alone?? what are you thinking letting him live by himself on the other side of the country?? do you know what he does with strange men carrying tire irons??  
> Tim: he can sleep in my room with me and I promise I won't even sneak any pictures while he's sleeping, it'll be great!  
> Bruce: ...this sounds like a Dick situation...


End file.
